From here you can see the future
– a free-market version of it –
but not exactly where it ends;
only where the blinking red eyes
of its tail-lights disappear, inching
like hope into the underpass.
Bunched in its sneering wake,
we are all indignant but resigned,
each rehearsing their part in a
symphony of rage. We’ve evolved
to breathe in nitrogen oxides,
metabolize particulate matter.
Somehow, none of us is where
we think we really should be.

I’m very pleased to have had a rich run of appearances in online poetry magazines recently. Thanks to Juliet Cook, editor of Thirteen Myna Birds for including three of my poems – Aftermath of a minor collision, Easy life and Traffic report – in March’s selection.